


A Cat Who Likes Lilac and Gooseberries

by spiritualturtle



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Non-Canon Relationship, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritualturtle/pseuds/spiritualturtle
Summary: There are two versions of this. This is the x OC version. Please see other works for x fem!reader version.Frances is a simple woman, the pest management of White Orchard until a certain white wolf decided to drop by. If only she had known of the whirlwind of a world you would be dragged through.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg & Original Female Character(s), Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Original Female Character(s), minor - Relationship, possibly to be added to
Kudos: 3





	1. Cats and Dogs Never Get Along

With a breath ladened with frost, a thick, woollen cloak adorning cold shoulders and fur lined gloves protecting fingers from possible frostbite. Even the warmth of a horse made little to no difference. To say it was cold outside was an understatement. Winter was never easy for anyone, aside from maybe nobles who could afford all the food and warmth they could ever dream of. White Orchard was far from well off, comprising of farmers and tradesmen, all of which could barely feed themselves let alone their families over the winter period. Cattle were thin, sheep were stripped of their wool. Horses were not in the best of shape, however, it seemed as though they were cared for more than any other livestock. They were kept under cover where possible, with as much hay as their owner could give. Unlike the cattle and sheep, who were knee-deep in mud and all they had was the waterlogged straw. A horse had more use than meat and wool, they were a mode of transportation, they helped till the fields, they even brought in money if they were bred for racing. For a witcher, a horse was a best friend. Athletic, well built, well mannered. Stallions weren’t an option, whilst yes they should be well mannered, it would take many unnecessary hours to train them. Mares were okay, however, when in season it was like trying to ride a dragon. That is why Frances had a preference for geldings, a horse who was once a stallion. They were quiet and well mannered. Her gelding was buckskin in colour of an unknown breed, but either way, he meant the world to her, pedigree or not. His name was Chex.

Now, as for Frances, she was a witcher, a feline to be exact. Short, auburn hair in a rough bob cut with pale, freckled skin. Her eyes were the classic golden, with the slit, cat-like pupils. She wasn’t particularly short or tall, but don’t call her average. She was built, there was no doubt about that. However, she wasn’t one of those who had the changed mutagen, no. She was one of the original mutagen, emotionless. The school of the cat was one of the few that trained women into becoming witchers, mostly due to the mutagen process. It was different from that of the wolf, feline witchers were lithe and agile, aiming for more precise hits rather than just going for it and hoping for the best. Their attacks were calculated and deliberate. Ever since the culling of the keep in Stygga, Frances was left to roam the continent. She wasn’t present for the siege, so she avoided death on that behalf. Ever since then, she had never come across any other feline witcher. It wasn’t too much of a hassle, she was more than content in her small, bungalow type house and taking the odd monster contract here and there. That’s what set Frances apart from other feline witchers, she only killed monsters. She never found pleasure in killing humans, it was far less rewarding. Watching a large beast tumble to the ground as its last breath leaves its flooded lungs, it makes the adrenaline rush all the more worth it. 

It was always the same, however, it was never boring. Frances exhaled deeply from her nose, her booted foot standing on the chest of a wild dog as she effortlessly pulled out the silver sword that had embedded itself into the sternum of the creature. It was like a ragdoll, a bloodied, dead ragdoll. The small town - if one could call it that - had been having a problem with wild dogs attacking livestock, so it was only a given that she would assist in ridding the pest problem. Even though she would take care of the beasties that showed up in the neighbouring areas, the townsfolk didn’t particularly like her. They glared and scowled for the most part, but that’s just how it was, being a witcher. Frances wasn’t exactly welcome anywhere but her home and the local inn, where the innkeeper was thankful that whenever she would trod her boots through the small establishment, they were always clean. Not only that, the ruckus was kept at a minimum when she was there. 

After setting the corpse of the wild dog on fire, Frances made her way towards the inn, using one of the water troughs on her way to wash her hands, face and boots. Something felt off, Frances’ stomach churned as she sensed an unusual presence. She glanced over at the inn, a chestnut mare was hitched to the rail. She hadn’t seen that horse here before, and it was uncommon for travellers to pass through. So, to quell her curiosity, Frances briskly walked over to the inn, returnung her sword to its sheath in the process. 

The door groaned its familiar tone as she pushed it open almost warily, her golden eyes darting around the inn until they landed on an unfamiliar person. White hair, an ugly scar and slitted pupils. His head was down, buried into a hand of gwent cards. A wolf medallion hung from his neck, similar to her own cat medallion. Frances knew exactly what he was, but who he was, that was a complete mystery to her. She hadn’t come across many witchers in her lifetime, and only then it was in passing when on the road. The feline decided to play it safe and rather than asking the stranger, she approached the innkeeper with that charming smile of hers. 

“Ah, good afternoon, Elsa,” she said as the feline approached the counter.

“I wouldn’t say a good afternoon, ‘ad a troop of bandits wander through earlier on. Besides that, ‘ow can I ‘elp you?” The older woman asked, her voice tired and strained. 

“The chestnut mare outside, don’t suppose you have a new steed?”

“No, no, it’s been a long time since I’ve ridden. That there mare belongs to the white-haired fella, uh, Geralt? I think that’s what ‘e said.”

Frances dipped her head in thanks. Geralt,she’d never heard of the name. His white hair was odd, he certainly wasn’t elderly. Against her better judgement, the female witcher found her boots clacking quietly against the partial cobblestone flooring as she approached the wolf. 

“Odd seeing your kind here,” the woman stated rather boldly, however, felt all confidence leave her being as the other locked eyes with her.

He seemed annoyed that Frances had interrupted his gwent match, the other opponent taking the time to think through his next move. 

“I could say the same to you,” he said, his voice hoarse and gruff.

Of course, he would know she was a witcher, why wouldn’t he?

“I was talking about a traveller,” the feline stated in recovery, “but as a witcher, too. Frances, a pleasure.”

He grumbled lowly, turning back to his game as his opponent played his turn, “Geralt, what do you want?”

“Oh don’t be so dreary, you could lull a flock of harpies to sleep.” She rolled her eyes, it was like talking to a brick wall and she had only been talking for a matter of minutes, “I haven’t seen another witcher for a good few decades, thought I could tag along and see what you sink your sword into, wolf.”

Geralt glanced over, the light hitting the medallion on her chest in just the right spot where it glinted into his eye and in turn, he squinted. 

“A feline, I should’ve known.” The white-haired one set his cards down, indicating a forfeit as he rose from his seat and stepped away from it, “outside.”

“Oh, so demanding,” she teased, but obliged, giving a small wave to the innkeeper as she made her way out of the inn. 

He trudged his way behind her, the clinking of the swords strapped to his back almost music to her ears. Once outside, he walked towards the chestnut mare that stood so still and turned to Frances. 

“So, what are you here for?”

“I live here,” she stated rather flatly, “what are you here for?”

Geralt grunted, “witchers don’t settle down.”

“This one had no choice,” she scowled. 

“Your type is a disgrace.”

“My type? I would watch your words, wolf.”

“You have no moral compass.”

“Ah-ah, no, they have no moral compass.”

“And who’s ‘they’?”

“The felines with the fucked up mutagens, dumbass,” she snarled.

He was getting on Frances’ nerves, so quick to judge and make accusations. She wasn’t like those other felines, they were feral and unpredictable. In a way, she was glad the majority of them were culled. The problem was, Geralt didn’t apologise nor give any inkling that he would take back what he would say. 

“Why are you here?” She asked once again. 

“I am passing through, thought I’d stop for a drink and ultimately a game of gwent until you disturbed me,” the wolf explained, his voice still hoarse. 

“Take me with you.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf? Take me with you, wherever you’re going,” Frances repeated, looking up at him.

“Now, why would I do that?”

“Because you don’t have a choice,” she said with a smirk, “if you won’t let me accompany you, I’ll follow you.”

“Why?”

“Why anything? I’m bored and I’ve been here far too long. Besides, gives me a reason to see how you wolves go about killing monsters.”

He sighed, shaking his head in annoyance. In his eyes, Frances was almost as annoying as Dandelion, but at least she could fend for herself.

“Fine, as long as you stay quiet and out of my way, do you have a horse?” He asked, climbing into the saddle of the chestnut mare.

“Only the best.” 

Frances headed back towards her little abode, packing two sets of saddlebags with things that she would need. Chex was out in the field, his front legs hobbled so he couldn’t get very far. After collecting him, giving him a brush and saddling him, she placed the two sets of saddlebags over his rump and attached them to the saddle. The feline made sure the girth was tightened appropriately before mounting him, extending her legs forward as she settled comfortably in the seat. Once Frances was sure she was ready, she met with Geralt at the end of the road that headed towards Novigrad, however, Geralt’s mare had a lot to say about the new company. She pinned her ears and lashed out at Chex, squealing in the process. 

“Well, isn’t she lovely,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “what’s her name?”

“Roach.”

“As in cockroach? I wouldn’t say that’s very creative,” Frances grumbled, moving Chex to the mare’s near side and keeping a good distance away to prevent the mare from biting her horse. 

It was going to be a long trip to Novigrad, and Geralt was far, far from pleased.


	2. Rotten Fish and Steep Mud

Three days was a long time, and it was made even longer by following one of the broodiest people Frances had ever met in her life. Geralt was grumpy and agitated almost 24/7, he always had his knickers in a knot about something whether it was how she rode or how she held herself. It was always something with this man. Frances thought she was rather good at riding, she had partaken in a few small races around White Orchard over the years and won. The one time Frances had urged him to race, he bluntly declined only to state that it was ‘too rocky’ for the horses. Either way, she thought he was a whole tree in mud, rather than a stick. They were halfway to Oxenfurt, or that’s what it felt like at least. The feline hadn’t been that far north for a while, big cities weren’t exactly her thing. The pair were trekking through swampland, the smell burning Frances’ nose hairs and giving her goosebumps every other minute. Frances could hear Chex’s hooves squelching in the mud below her, the mud reaching just under his knee. The feline made a mental note to make sure that wherever she stopped, she would wash his legs down to lessen the risk of mud fever*. The last thing Frances need would be a lame horse and having to walk beside Geralt and his equally moody mare. He called his area Crookback Bog, she wasn’t entirely sure why but she was more than certain that she wanted to leave the area as soon as possible. 

In the distance, Frances could hear the groans and wails of drowners and waterhags that hadn’t noticed her existence or didn’t care. She figured it was the former. They were such ugly monsters, but that was all necrophages. Barely alive monsters that saw anyone and thought yum. She never understood how or whether they had thoughts because if they did surely they would choose something better to do than just sulking around waterways. Over the years, Frances had found that they are weak to fire, to Igni was always handy in dealing damage to those overgrown sea slugs. 

As she stared out into the distance where she thought a pack of them might be, Frances felt her horse come to a sudden halt. She frowned, looked in front of her and saw nothing. She then looked slightly down and an exasperated sigh left her being. A puddle. Chex had been walking through slosh for almost a day now and he decides to spook over a small puddle. 

“Really? Really?! Oh get on, you sod,” the woman growl, taking the reins into her hands and sitting up properly in the seat of the saddle, giving her legs a squeeze and clicking her tongue. 

H/N hesitated, swinging his hind end from the left to the right indecisively. He held his chin close to his chest, his front legs staggering slightly forward. That was ridiculous. Frances had owned this horse for years, she had gone monster-hunting together and this is what he was scared of in a bog riddled with drowners and hags? What an absolute joke. After several attempts to get him around or through the puddle, the feline give up and give him a much-needed kick. This snapped the buckskin gelding out of his fear-ridden state and he launched himself over the puddle, but in turn, stumbled into the mud in front. Frances on the other hand - whilst trying her best to stay in the saddle - was flung. As he jumped unexpectedly, Frances was launched out of the seat, falling right into his neck and hitting her nose in the process. It certainly wasn’t her most perfect jump, but she had managed stayed in the saddle and mud-free nonetheless. The same couldn’t have been said for Chex. Mud up to his chest and in his muzzle. Just grand.

Geralt had stopped when he noticed that Frances was no longer following, watching the whole scenario unfold with her unwilling mount. He had turned Roach around, who threw her head up when H/N lept forward. A groan left the wolf’s throat as he watched Chex finally settle himself. 

“Done fooling around?” He questioned, looking her now filthy horse over. 

Frances scoffed, shaking her head, “oh you’re funny, really you are. Just because you have a dead broke, bitch of a mare does not give you the right to tell me that I’m fooling around.”

The woman recomposed herself, adjusting her position in the saddle and squeezing her horse forward, who happily complied. A complete turnaround from the scaredy-cat who didn’t want to walk through a puddle just moments before. Frances caught up to Geralt, using Chex to shove him out of the way which caused Roach to attempt to bite the gelding, which in turn he kicked out at her. 

“Are we going to have a problem?” Geralt growled, clicking his tongue and urging Roach forward into a walk. 

“Well, we are if you make the wild claim that my issues are the equivalent to fooling around.”

And with that, the pair of them continued down the muddy road. That was the most words exchanged since the little trip began, it was amazing that Geralt could say more than a few words. But when he did pipe up, it always seemed to be an insult towards Frances.

It was only half a kilometre down the road until Frances’ horse stopped yet again. Based off of the previous scenario, she looked down towards his hooves but found that there weren’t any puddles. All she knew is that he wasn’t going anywhere. Looking around, the feline had found that Roach too was frozen in place and it wasn’t until she heard the desperate screeches and smelt the scent of rotting fish that she figured out why. They had been spotted. 

A trio of drowners hobbled towards her, hissing and snarling. So, Frances reacted accordingly, quickly dismounting and slapping her horse’s hindquarters, of which it spooked him and he sprinted off. She drew her sword, the sound of the silver grazing against the leather sheath flooding her ears before she focused on the hideous creatures that had surrounded them. Frances glanced to Geralt to see that he had done the same, however, his approach was much more clunky and heavy. One of the drowners had burrowed, so she focused on the one closest to her all the while being cautious that the one underground could easily spring up behind her. Frances crinkled her nose, the stench the creatures emitted made her want to hurl but alas, there was no time for that. Stepping forward, the feline sliced at the drowner’s arms, with such precision that she sliced that main artery of its arm. Frances spun to avoid the creature as it ploughed forward, the drowner looking around in confusion before it once again laid its eyes upon her and charged towards her. Frances stepped back - getting ready to cast Igni - however, she stumbled over a fallen branch, the drowner landing a clawed slash to her sternum. Frances hissed in pain, it was only superficial but it hurt nonetheless. In retaliation, she sliced at the creature, her sword causing a deep laceration to its chest and within seconds of landing the blow, she cast Igni. The drowner was set aflame, wailing and whining as the fire burnt away at its slimy flesh. Eventually, it dropped to the ground.

Frances whipped around, her attention turning to Geralt for a brief second. He was taking care of the other drowner, his hits having no precision but dealing the most damage possible. He was heavy-handed, his body moving in an unconventional way. But it worked, and that’s all that mattered. The feline’s attention was pulled away as the last of the drowners burst out from the ground. They had misjudged her whereabouts, as they sprung up to the right of her rather than from behind. Meanwhile, Geralt had killed the drowner he was fighting, and so turned to assist in killing the last one. 

The woman dodged every move the drowner threw at her, slashing at the back of its knee and using Aard to shove it back. The white wolf stepped forward and stabbed through its neck, yanking the sword out from the side and partially decapitating it before she finished the job, slicing the last strands of flesh, tendon and muscle that held the head together. Geralt’s breathing was slightly laboured, whereas hers was nothing but a light pant. The difference in training was clear, but both were effective in monster killing. 

“You did good,” the other stated, sliding his sheath into his sword. 

Frances snorted, more out of shock than anything. He sounded so odd giving a compliment like it was forced. Hell, it probably was, he doesn’t seem to be the type to openly give people compliments. 

“Only naturally,” she said with a smirk, “but you did well, it’s interesting watching a wolf fight.”

The feline stepped over to the drowner that was just killed, pulling out a small dagger and slicing off its tongue. He grunted, whistling for Roach.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” He asked, watching as she cracked open the creature’s skull and taking its brain. 

“You were rushed, choppy and heavy-handed. You were trained to put in as much brute force as possible. You didn’t care what or how you hit, as long as it hurt,” Frances explained, cradling the brain and tongue in one hand, sliding her knife away and whistling for Chex, who answered with a nicker before trotting over to them. 

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” he grumbled, climbing into Roach’s saddle once she approached.

“No,” she started, opening one of the saddlebags once the buckskin gelding was standing quietly, pulling out a hessian wrap and placing the brain and tongue in before folding the cloth around the materials and placing them snuggly in the bag, “it just shows your technique is unrefined, I’m sure I could assist in such teachings.”

She were rather smug, she had him doubting whether he was good enough or not. Frances mounted her horse, and it wasn’t until then that she remembered the claw lacerations to her chest. The feline hissed and went to clutch her chest, but the contact from her fingers caused the wounds to sting even more. Frances remove the straps that held the sheaths of her swords and placed them over her lap, removing the top piece of her armour and unbuttoning her shirt. The feline never wore heavy armours, they were clunky and proved to be difficult to maneuver in. So whilst the armour she wore wasn’t as effective as it should be, it allowed her hits to be as precise and as damaging as possible. She studied the lacerations, gently pulling down on the unharmed skin and snarling as the wounds were pulled. Frances reached back into one of the saddlebags and pulled out a tonic. It wouldn’t heal it right away, but it would numb the wounds until they reached an established town. 

“That looks pretty nasty,” Geralt said, glancing over at her.

“Stating the obvious are we?” Frances snickered, shaking her head, “it’s fine, it's not deep so the scars will be faint. I just want to wash it out to make sure there’s nothing in it,” her voice was muffled as she poured the tonic over the wounds, wincing slightly. It dampened her shirt and pants, but they needed to be washed anyway. When left, drowner blood stank.

He nodded, “We shouldn’t be too far from Crow’s Perch, do you think you can hold on until there?”

Geralt? Showing concern? Frances would laugh did it not hurt when breathing. She gave a simple nod, “I don’t have much of a choice,” the feline said with a soft chuckle. The tonic didn’t take long to take effect and once it did, the woman was fine to ride the rest of the way at a trot and slow canter. 

The rest of the way to Crow’s Perch was quiet, only the sounds of hooves squelching in much changing to hard hoof beats on a dirt road. Frances was alright for the most part, climbing down from the saddle as they arrived at the enclosed town. She walked through the town, Chex’s reins in hand before she hitched him to a log and walked into the shopkeep. She needed something to get her through until the pair reached Oxenfurt. Looking around the small business, Frances collected a few bandages and a bunch of celandines. She approached the shopkeeper, placing the things on the counter.

“That’ll be ten crowns,” the woman stated.

The feline scowled. What a waste of money. But it was either that or she would have a very painful trip to Oxenfurt. Frances begrudgingly toss ten crowns onto the countertop and collected her things, muttering a thank you before walking back outside. 

“Geralt, do you have any dwarven spirit?”  
“Why?”

“I’m out of potions, I just want to brew one quickly. It’ll make the trip to Oxenfurt more comfortable.”

He nodded, going through his saddlebags and eventually pulling out the small vial. He handed it to her before she settled down next to Chex on the dirt path after pulling out a small steel bowl, a bottle of mead and the drowner brain she had harvested earlier. It didn’t take Frances long to make the nasty smelling concoction, downing its contents in one go. Her entire being shuddered, her nose screwing up as she felt the foul liquid go down her throat. She gave the bowl a rinse out and tucked it back into the saddlebag, along with the empty vial and the remaining stalks of celandine. Frances pulled herself into the saddle after unhitching her horse from the log and disembarked with Geralt towards Oxenfurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *a skin disease brought upon by prolonged exposure to wet and muddy conditions. Often causes swelling and heat in the fetlock and pastern area. The skin becomes raw with scabs and wounds and ultimately leads to lameness.
> 
> I haven't really written a combat scene before, so my apologies on that behalf I know its certainly not the best it could be.


End file.
